


Seasons of Love

by under_a_linden_tree



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, I am weak for one (1) trope, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), and it's waking up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22787311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: The world has not-ended, and Aziraphale and Crowley have built a life together. There's one thing that Crowley loves above all else, though - waking up with his angel.It's just some fluff, really.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 94





	Seasons of Love

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my absolutely lovely beta reader D20Owlbear, who also provided me with a title.  
> I am weak for cuddling fluff, what else can I say?

**Autumn.**

The best part of it all is waking up together, Crowley decides. Lazy mornings, golden dawn light, coffee in bed and pyjama pants, thick blankets, down-filled pillows, and a cool breeze through the tilted window. He doesn’t care where they wake up as long as they’re together, whether it is between his cool dark sheets, large and otherwise so very empty, or between the warm multitude of pillows on Aziraphale's crowded bed or sometimes even, after a long night, on the worn down sofa in the bookshop.

On the topic of beds: Currently, they are lazing away in Crowley's. The room is dark and cool, with almost no light seeping in beneath the door, but the covers keep the cold away. There is so much space here but they barely need it, lying close to each other in the middle of the mattress. Crowley's arms are tangled underneath his head and he gazes at Aziraphale's sleeping form, barely visible in the faint light. The angel has learned to sleep tightly in the past months, unfazed by all the events surrounding him, immune to the sounds of early morning traffic. He breathes deeply and evenly, sounding very content.

Aziraphale is a blanket hog, curled up in the satin sheets, having stolen them all from Crowley during the night. His white sleeping shirt is starting to shine brightly against the dark room, thin rays of light piercing the blinds. From time to time, the angel mumbles in his sleep, undecipherable sentence fragments in a soft voice or accompanied by a frown. It is enticing, to see that he must dream. Crowley would love to reach out and caress his cheek but he is afraid of waking him. Perhaps he should go and make coffee but then again, he would miss out on a lovely view.

Aziraphale begins to stir now. He sighs and pulls the blankets closer around his body, wriggling deeper into the sheets, burying his shoulder in the pillow.

"Good morning," Crowley tries to say but it ends up as a sleep-muffled croak.

The response is a malcontent mumble as Aziraphale rolls his shoulders. He needs a few more moments until he returns the "Morning."

"Want some coffee?" Crowley asks, only in part because he craves it himself. The other half of him, the one he tries steadfastly to ignore, tells him how lovely it would be, seeing him here with a cup cradled in his hands, sighing at the rich smell of coffee. It’s something tender that rises in his chest and he can’t have that, not yet, or he will never get out of bed again.

Aziraphale shakes his head, the creases of the pillow ending up imprinted on his face. He moves his hand a little across the bed, fingertips brushing against Crowley's ribcage. "Stay here," he says, tilting his head to the side like a sunbathing cat rolling on warm pavement.

Crowley smiles faintly and moves the pillow away from Aziraphale's mouth. "'Course I will," he mumbles, gently resting his hand on Aziraphale's cheek.

The thin rays of sunlight are illuminating his face now and Crowley can see that the angel's eyes are still closed. He looks so peaceful. A couple of minutes pass in silence, then he begins to stretch his arms above his head, hands neatly folded together. His spine bends and his joints creak. The final part of Aziraphale's waking-up-ritual.

"Did you sleep well?" he yawns and Crowley nods. "Good."

Aziraphale's hand returns to Crowley's waist and he begins trailing his fingers up and down his darling demon's ribcage. The sensation still feels so terribly new, even though it has become one of Aziraphale's—and thereby, Crowley's—favourite things. He moves a little closer to make reaching out easier.

"I forgot to say it yesterday," Aziraphale rasps, then clears his throat, sending a trembling sensation through Crowley's palm. "But thank you for the evening."

"I know how much you like sushi", Crowley responds and cards his fingers through the curls at Aziraphale's nape. They are unbelievably soft.

"Oh, I do," he agrees, leaning back into the touch. The corners of his mouth twitch serenely. "I didn't know one could go stargazing in central London."

"Almost a miracle, really."

They both smile and Crowley leans over, giving him a tender kiss. Aziraphale clutches his back and holds him close as he buries himself in his embrace. Crowley's hand is still in Aziraphale's hair. It’s nothing else, just their lips brushing and the warmth of two bodies, holding on to each other.

Aziraphale parts from him and brightens, shining like a thousand stars. "Love you," he mumbles and nuzzles his nose against Crowley's neck. Crowley grins like a fool but the angel doesn't see it.

The mornings really are the best part of it all.

**Winter.**

The mornings are the oddest, most endearing little things. Especially when they follow hazy nights.

Aziraphale's sofa is a tad run down, threads are undone at the edges and raw fabric patched across the seats. However, it is comfortable and comfort attracts the drunk and the tired. Incidentally, Crowley and Aziraphale have been both.

When the wine is strong one night or another and Crowley has that cozy feeling spreading all across his chest, he inevitably ends up on the sofa sooner or later. It's one of Aziraphale's favourite spots, too, and he takes up space there, space that is warm and safe and soft. Before long, Crowley inhibits that space, too. He rests his head in Aziraphale's lap and closes his eyes, allowing for his heartbeat to slow down. Everything is fine now.

His touch is tender, carding through Crowley's hair and pressing against his skin. Crowley leans into the touch and brings his legs up onto the sofa, curling around his beloved angel's soft side. Aziraphale peppers wine-stained kisses across Crowley's skin - his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks and his chin. The kisses are slow and getting ever more sleepy, a little sloppy, even. Crowley's skin tingles wherever it is touched. He recalls Aziraphale kicking off his shoes and settling into the backrest. The warmth of his body radiating against the cold. Something about a plaid blanket.

He wakes tangled up with Aziraphale, limbs intertwined and holding hands, his face nuzzled into the waistcoat. Crowley has no clue whatsoever how they ended up like this but it does not mean he can't appreciate it. The weather's very cold outside but here, nothing can harm him. Aziraphale's breathing is steady and deep and slow (he breaths through his mouth on occasion, not quite snoring yet but definitely noisy). His other hand is wrapped around Crowley's back, clinging to the red-and-green blanket.

The sound of soothing rain is rapping against the window. Outside, everything is grey and foggy, a highly unwelcoming morning. Yesterday, there had been snow but now, there's only muddy puddles. Crowley doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to be awake, either.

With a sigh, he readjusts the blanket, drawing it closer around the two of them. Aziraphale smiles contentedly in his sleep. It was a good decision, teaching him how to do it. Crowley loves to see him so calm; it soothes his soul. Even when Aziraphale starts to move a little, he does not push him off the sofa. Instead, he holds on tight, ensuring that he will not fall alone, even in his sleep.

It's a crowded space, really, but you have to make the best of it. Sometimes, the best entails burying one's face in your lover's old waistcoat and entangling your legs even more, keeping him in place. At least, that is what Crowley does and as he listens to the rain, he drifts back to sleep. He still does not know how they ended up like this, but he is certain that all his thoughts before falling asleep are centred around how endearing Aziraphale looks in his sleep, soft and radiant, and just how much he loves him.

**Spring.**

Perhaps Aziraphale's bed is the most comfortable piece of furniture in his entire bookshop and the crowded flat above. It is soft and warm with its beige coverlet and plethora of pillows, a safe space, smaller and more crowded than Crowley's. It's a rarity to wake up here, and he savours every minute of it.

Some of their clothes are still draped across the fireguard by the chimney. They are probably dry by now. Yesterday, they have been caught in an early April rainstorm, arriving at the bookshop drenched and shivering with the cold (there were cups of hot cocoa with marshmallows, knit blankets and a sizzling fire, ready to drive it away).

Crowley's legs are pressed against Aziraphale's, his cool shins resting on warm skin, and he feels no need to rise and fetch his trousers at all. Instead, he buries himself more deeply between the pillows, reaching across the space between him and his angel. His hand comes to a lazy rest on the small of his back, tenderly, rubbing circles into his skin before trailing up to the spot where his wings would be.

"Good morning," Aziraphale croaks, suddenly.

He shifts a little, adjusting Crowley's arm around him so that he is wrapped up fully in his warmth. Crowley doesn't have that much to give but Aziraphale takes it all, takes it and is content with it.

"Have you slept well?"

"Yeah," Crowley says, his voice low, as though he would otherwise destroy this moment, stolen between the ink-dark thundering night and the soft, bright daylight. "Had a nice dream. About you and me."

"Oh?" Aziraphale whispers, entangling their legs and pulling himself even closer, so that he is nearly resting on Crowley's chest. He nuzzles his nose against Crowley's chin - it tickles a little, but he does not mind. It does something to him, but it's a good something.

Crowley tries to fight the grin spreading across his face but he fails miserably. "Some ducks were there, too," he continues instead.

Aziraphale raises his brows; it looks quite endearing, his eyes still half-closed and his forehead gently lined. "We should go and feed them soon. They must feel blatantly neglected." 

"Mhm... Remember that walk in St. James' Park?"

He nods, his chin bouncing off Crowley's chest. "The one after the world had ended. That’s the one you mean, isn’t it? How could I forget? You took my hand for the first time."

"You were shocked," Crowley says, drawing back his hand resting underneath Aziraphale's shoulder to card through his hair.

"Was I?" Aziraphale's laugh is muffled by Crowley’s shirt—It’s bright white and too lose around his chest. Aziraphale has handed it to him the night before, soft hands curling around his own. “So you won’t be cold, my dear. Yours is all drenched.”—but he can hear it nonetheless. "I must have been surprised, but shocked? No, not really."

"I dreamt about it tonight. Was nice."

"You have odd dreams, darling," the angel teases and presses a kiss to Crowley's chin. Has he ever done that before? Found this soft skin and captured it?

"Still think we should feed them."

"Huh?" Aziraphale looks up at him now, surprised, his eyes still hazy with sleep.

"The ducks," he says, furrowing his brows in mock exasperation.

Aziraphale chuckles and shakes his head ever so slightly, before he leans back into the touch of Crowley's hand, still entangled with his hair. He could stay like this all day, but then -

"I’ll make us some coffee, then we buy a fresh loaf of bread and head for St. James'. What do you think?"

"I could make breakfast if you wan–" Crowley begins, trying to sit up, but Aziraphale interrupts him.

"No, no, you stay here."

Aziraphale pushes him back into the multitude of pillows and presses a firm kiss to his mouth. He lingers for a while, then he draws away and trails his hand down the line on Crowley's chest. "I'll be with you again in a moment - and don't you dare follow me downstairs."

So Crowley watches as Aziraphale carefully detangles himself from the blanket, throws on his soft robe and slips out the door. It's a view he could get used to. Perhaps he has, a little. Sometimes he feels that he knows everything about him already, edges and all, but then Aziraphale surprises him with a story or a freckle he has never seen before or with a cup of steaming coffee in bed, early in the morning.

**Summer.**

Summer nights are comfortable; mild and beautiful. There's a certain charm to them and it would be a pity to let that go to waste.

So a picnic is prepared and there's a car ride to the countryside and a clearing in the woods, and hours spent over good wine and refreshing food. It's damned warm and in this tiresome heat, Crowley starts to feel drowsy. So Aziraphale offers him to rest on his chest while he reads a book. It almost seems like he expected this to happen.

Crowley wakes at dawn when the light is still faint and the heat is lingering on the horizon. He has slept well, although his neck feels a little stiff. And yet, how could he not be content, with the smell of pine trees and the chirping of birds and Aziraphale's soft chest underneath his head. It takes him a while to notice all the finer things about his situation, the small details that make this seem surreal. The sun is barely even illuminating the clearing; instead, it casts a low orange light over Aziraphale's face. His shirt is crinkled under Crowley's cheek (He adored it yesterday, how imperfect it was and how he had rolled it up at the elbows, the top button undone. He still adores it now.). Grass is tickling against his back. And there's a hand, tenderly caressing the skin around his neck, where his shirt leaves his chest uncovered.

It comes to a rest when Aziraphale moves to turn a page and catches Crowley's eye.

"Oh, I hadn't noticed you were awake, darling," he says softly.

His hand trails back until merely his fingertips are left there, warm against Crowley's clavicles. Crowley turns and presses a kiss to Aziraphale's wrist, gentle and careful. Sometimes, he still feels like he has to be careful. Even thousands of years haven't taught him everything he needs to know about this angel.

It turns out that Aziraphale doesn't mind it at all. He hums contentedly and brushes his nose through Crowley's hair, so it may well count as a success.

"Just woke up." He yawns a little, to underline his point. "Did you get very far?"

"No." Aziraphale smiles against Crowley's skin. "I'm afraid I got carried away."

Oh. Oh really? That is... interesting. Lovely, really, even though he would never say that out loud. Instead, he just grins and buries his face in the crook of Aziraphale's elbow, white shirt scratching against his cheeks.

"Are you smiling?" Aziraphale asks, a lightness to his voice that pulls at Crowley's heartstrings, makes him shuffle even closer.

"No," he says. He has told better lies and he knows it. "I don't do smiles."

"You don't read books, either. And yet, this one wasn't where I placed it on the shelf." He hears the book snap shut. It's a classic novel, one of those dealing with a virtuous member of society or something the like, a genre Crowley would most decidedly never pick up.

"Must have forgot where you put it."

"Crowley, I don't dog-ear my books. This isn't even mine, it's a paperback," Aziraphale chides but then he laughs, with a full heart. "I hope you don't mind me borrowing it."

"Fine," Crowley mumbles. "Hope you like it."

"Mhm, I do."

Aziraphale takes one of Crowley's hands into his, holding on tight. Crowley can feel his own heartbeat pulsing against his palm, strong and slow. It's mesmerizing. A steady reminder that he is not only alive, but that he has something worth living for. He is here and he would not want to be anywhere else.

The sun rises steadily, however, and so does the temperature. Soon, a blinding summer light will sting his eyes, brightening the clearing. His hair will stick against the dampening fabric of Aziraphale's shirt. It will be uncomfortable and they will move, but until then, there's something peaceful and quiet here, while Aziraphale resumes his reading and Crowley resettles so that he can read with him.


End file.
